


Acts of God

by BethCGPhoenix



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-06-30
Updated: 2004-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BethCGPhoenix/pseuds/BethCGPhoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One family, two answering machines, and the aftermath of a very different Alkali Lake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acts of God

**Author's Note:**

> Written for TrollPrincess as a part of the [X-Men Movieverse Ficathon](http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=xmmficathon). She requested a post-X2 AU in which (1) somebody else died in Jean's place and (2) John did not leave with Magneto. Many thanks to Jeff and Esther for the beta, and extra thanks to Jeff for providing some much-needed inspiration when I was a burbling, panicked mess four days before the deadline.

May 4, 2003.

"Hello, you've reached Madeline, William, Ronnie, and Bobby Drake. We're unavailable to take your call right now, but if you leave your name and number after the beep, we'll get back to you as soon as we can. Thanks a lot."

New messages: 3.

Beep.

"This is Susan Andrews of Boston Medical Eye Care. We're just calling to confirm an appointment tomorrow at 9 AM for Madeline Drake. If this is incorrect, please call us back - our hours are nine-thirty AM to five PM. Thank you."

Click.

Beep.

"William, it's Roger up the street. I think I left my leaf blower at your house when I came over in...Christ, in October? Yeah, to help you with that front lawn of yours. Well, Julie thinks we've got a bird nest stuck in our dryer vent, so we kind of need it to help blow the thing out so we don't have to go to work buck-ass naked. Could you check your garage or wherever and call me back when you can? Thanks. Bye."

Click.

Beep.

"Mr. and Mrs. Drake, my name is Charles Xavier. I am the headmaster at your son Bobby's school - I believe we spoke briefly when he was first enrolled. I...have some news I need to give you as soon as possible. Our number is 203-872-9873; it is imperative that you call me as soon as you receive this message. Thank you."

Click.

* * *

_"Do you feel that?" he whispered._

_"Do you feel that?" he said again, and John and Rogue turned to him with questioning looks. Bobby was standing ankle-deep in the Canadian snow, immobile, ramrod straight - heh, frozen, John thought a little wildly - a creature poised on the edge of flight-or-fight as he stared at some huge and invisible thing. He exhaled a long, coiling plume of mist from his nostrils; Rogue rubbed her exposed elbows and shivered._

_"Feel what?"_

_"Something's wrong. Too much moisture - " His eyes went wide, and he whirled around, a movement so sudden that both of them flinched. "We have to get back to the jet."_

_"What?"_

__"Now! _" Bobby didn't wait for a response; he just seized Rogue's hand and began to run, the two of them slipping and skidding over the snow. John followed. He didn't want to, and if he had any sense he would have turned around and kept going, but the hunted and desperate look, the_ fire _in his friend's eyes had scared even him._

_"What the fuck?" he shouted anyway, more as a perfunctory gesture. "Bobby, what the hell's gotten into you?"_

_"You idiot," Bobby berated him in gasping breaths, as if that was a sufficient answer. "I told you we shouldn't have left! 'Kids table shit' - there was a reason, I told you there was a reason..." He kept running, sharp, dense puffs of mist shooting from his mouth._

_That was when John heard the rumble._

* * *

May 5, 2003.

A man's voice, wearied and flat: "You've reached Madeline, William, and Ronnie Drake. We can't take your call right now, but if you leave a message after the beep, we'll get back to you as soon as we can. Bye."

New messages: 1.

Beep.

"Hi. This is...my name is Dr. Jean Grey. I a - was one of Bobby's professors at Xavier's. I. Well, first, I want to give all of you my...my most heartfelt condolences to you for your loss. There's very little I can say that will help, I know, but please know that everyone here has him in. In their thoughts and prayers.

"Um. Second, I wanted to let you know that we're having a memorial service for Bobby on the eighth. Professor Xavier said he would be more than willing to cover any flight costs if you want to come, and if you wanted to stay for a few days, he could arrange a guest room for you.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Drake. Mrs. Drake. I know we...we failed your son. We said we would take care of him, and we....I'm sorry. I know it will be a long time before we've earned your forgiveness, if at all, but - I'm sorry. Forgive me. I-I hope we'll see you at the memorial on Wednesday.

Bye."

Click.

* * *

_For a flickering, ephemeral instant, he thought that the jet was taking off without them, that the X-Men hadn't noticed their absence in their rush to squirrel the hostages out of Stryker's compound. He pulled his too-thin jacket closer, tucked his head down, and lengthened his stride into the best sprint he could manage._

_Then Rogue gasped, and he realized that the rumble he heard wasn't the thudding, grating roar of pistons and gears. It was the living scream of the sea, the sound of hundreds of thousands of gallons of water clashing against one another as they tumbled end-over-end, wild, unstoppable. He'd only heard it once before: during a trip to Delaware, as he stood on the Rehoboth boardwalk and watched the Atlantic tides._

_Bobby may as well have aimed a blast of frost at them all, what with the way they stopped dead and stared. The air was growing hazy with mist._

_In the distance, a thick band of seething blue rushed toward them._

_"Oh, shit."_

* * *

May 7, 2003.

"You've reached Madeline, William, and Ronnie Drake...."

New messages: 2.

Beep.

"Hey Ronnie, it's Sam. Do you remember what we were supposed to do for geography? 'Cause I don't. Gimme a call if you know. And, uh...um, I'm, uh, really really sorry about your brother, too, man. If you....

"Yeah. See you tomorrow."

Click.

Beep.

"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Drake. My name is Kurt Wa - Kurt Wagner. From what I understand, you have been fairly swamped with calls from Herr Xavier's home, and I suppose you may be growing tired of them. I would still like to add my own to them.

"I have not been here very long, and I knew of your son for only several hours. No one can know the grief you must feel, least of all myself. All the same, I do know it is a terrible tragedy when one so young passes on. It seems...it does not seem right, ja? There is never rhyme or reason to the taking of a life when that life is one you cherish, and one that has such greatness to see.

"Saying that it is part of God's plan will not help when the grief is fresh, I know. But I do hope that as time passes, you will begin to see....We cannot hope to understand, yes. But we can try. And I shall hope and pray for understanding for us all in the years that follow.

"I shall keep Bobby, and you, and all of us in my prayers. If there is anything I can do to help you, please tell me.

"Auf Wiedersehen."

Click.

* * *

_"Oh,_ shit, _" John repeated. Maybe if he said it enough times, in the same incredulous and shaky voice, God, fate, or whatever other man-behind-the-curtain type that was running this show would sit up and take notice. Maybe he'd hold out a hand and thrust apart the sea - no, no, you idiot, that had been Moses, not God. Maybe -_

_Maybe Bobby would do it for Him._

_Bobby fucking Drake, savior of them all, was wrenching himself from Rogue's grip and stepping forward. His jaw was set firm, his blue eyes cold and hard as flints. "Bobby!" she screamed; he ignored her and reached out a hand. The frigid air dipped a few more degrees._

_He wasn't...no. There was no damn way he was doing what John thought he was doing. He couldn't be. "Drake, what the fuck are you - "_

__"Shut up. _" The pink color in his skin leached out to blue, the vapor around them turning to thin crystals of ice. They whipped backward on the wind that crested before the wave and slammed into John's skin; they clustered on his eyelashes and stung his eyes. Time itself seemed to slow._

 _No. That wasn't it. The_ water _was slowing. Congealing._

_Icing._

_Fuck. He_ was _doing what he thought he was doing._

* * *

May 9, 2003.

"You've reached Madeline, William, and Ronnie - "

New messages: 3.

Beep.

"Hello. I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Scott Summers; I taught your son - "

Beep.

"Um, hi, Mr. and Mrs. Drake. My name's R - Marie. We met about a-a week ago, I - "

Beep.

"Hello. This is Ororo Munroe. I understand you've received a few calls from us alrea - "

Beep.

"Erase all messages?"

Beep.

New messages: 0.

* * *

_"Bobby!"_

_The blue on Bobby's skin had shifted to clear: ice latticed up and around his arms as he gritted his teeth, temples throbbing. He didn't move. He didn't stop. Blood started to dribble over the living freeze that had engulfed him, leaking from his nose, and the jetstream of cold wavered, shivered, but didn't stop -_

_"BOBBY!"_

_\- as Iceman planted his feet and pushed back the tide._

_The water was still moving, however sluggishly, but now John found that he finally could as well. He picked up his feet and fought his way toward Bobby through the whistling sleetstorm; the dull roar of the wave pounded in his ears, mixed with the creaking, cracking noise of frozen water struggling to move._

_And then, suddenly, it stopped. A hush thudded down against them. The sleet fell in steady drifts a moment longer, but with neither wind nor water nor thermokinesis to sustain it, it swirled to the ground. When John caught his breath and looked over his shoulder, he saw the water not three hundred yards away, one finger of it trapped in a broad white arch. His knees begin to shake._

_Rogue's thin, trembling sob pulled him from the edge._

_"...Bobby?"_

* * *

May 10, 2003.

"You've reached Madeline, William, and Ronnie Drake. We can't take your call right now, but if you leave a message after the beep, we'll get back to you as soon as we can. Bye."

New messages: 1.

Beep.

Nothing today. Just a disbelieving hiss of breath, then five long seconds of static-wracked silence.

Click.

* * *

Madeline Drake hit the "erase" button on the answering machine and began unloading her groceries, methodically grouping the perishables together on the kitchen counter. According to Ronnie, the insurance claims investigators had finally left not too long ago, having stopped by earlier that morning to examine the paperwork and make disheartening "hmm" noises at their scorched front hallway. Mutant pyrokinetic rages, it seemed, were not an event that would fall under "acts of God." More expenses, more money they didn't have, one more damn thing on top of another -

The doorbell rang. She sighed and set down the eggs, but William, just as open to a distraction as her, was already halfway to the door. Please, God, she found herself thinking, not more flowers for Bobby.

Their front door had warped considerably since the incident; she could hear William struggling with the blackened hinges. When they gave way with a creak, a quiet, deadened, and familiar voice waited beyond it:

"You took his name off of the answering machine."

She froze.

"Madeline." William, sharp and urgent. "Madeline, call the police. Now."

Madeline didn't need telling twice: she seized the cordless phone and stepped into soot-streaked hallway. William framed the front door, and just beyond him, St. John Allerdyce stood with a large box under one arm and a slim rectangle of silver palmed in the other hand.

"Get the hell off of my property," William was snarling at him. Madeline had to admire the way her husband's voice refused to shake in the face of the boy who had ignited their home. "How dare you. How _dare_ you think you can come back after what you did - "

"Right. After what I did. After what _I_ \- ?" The boy's voice sparked and crackled; Madeline swore she could see bands of fire uncurling in his eyes. "You hypocritical piece of shit. _He was your son_."

William's hand bent around the damaged wood, fingers compressing the charcoaled edges. "I swear to God," he said, "we will call the cops if you aren't gone in five seconds, you son of a - "

The click and hiss that interrupted him served as a wordless, yet eloquent threat. John studied the Zippo's flame for a moment before raising his eyes to theirs. The fire curved into a quick figure eight, flattened into a disc that tinged his face ochre, then vanished as he snapped the lid shut.

"I was with him when he died," John said quietly. "Somebody must've told you that. Didn't they? He saved my life, and a couple dozen more besides, and it turned him into a husk of ice that's probably melting up in Canada right now." His gaze hardened. "The least you can do in return is not act like your entire fucking family's come down with Alzheimer's."

Dropping the lighter into the pocket of his jeans, he shifted the box into both arms. The next words he spoke flickered like a candleflame. "Here, let me help jog the old memory, huh? It's his stuff. As much of it as I could cram into the only box I could find at Chez Xavier's, anyway. You'd think the guy would have more of them at a place like that." He laughed, in a sick and desperate way that made Madeline's skin crawl, as he let the box fall with a loud thump. It narrowly missed William's feet. "You want the rest of your _son's_ things, you can damn well come get them yourself."

Madeline jerked back - whether at the thud or the words, even she didn't know. By the time she'd fully come back to herself, John was striding briskly toward a car parked across the street. His head was down, his shoulders hunched; one hand twisted inside his pocket as he fumbled for the lighter again.

William, meanwhile, was on his knees and pulling back the crisscrossed flaps of the box. He'd moved quickly and without thought, and Madeline found herself doing the same as they bent over the sagging, ragged, oilstained cardboard together. One of the flaps had "B. Drake" scratched onto it and scribbled out in permanent ink.

Dimly, she realized that she was still holding the phone.

* * *

May 11, 2003.

"Hello. You've reached Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. I am sorry, but we are unable to take your call at the moment. If you are inquiring about enrollment, press one; otherwise, please stay on the line and leave your message after the tone."

New messages: 10.

Beep.

"Hello. This is Madeline Drake. One of your...students just came by our home with a box of Bobby's things. He said we could pick up the rest at the school, if we wanted. So, ah...I-I think we will be coming by this weekend to do that. If you could already have them packed up for us, we'd appreciate it."

A long pause.

"And once we leave through your front gates, I never want to hear from you or anyone else associated with your facility again. Good-bye."

Click.

Beep.


End file.
